It wasn’t pretty
I jumped on the trainer and the TV screen was glowing softly in my dungeon.
My Cervelo, rigid, its back wheel held tightly in my trainer, magnetic resistance applied to counter each pedal stroke.
Coach Troy, although imprisoned behind that dull TV glow, kept yelling out instructions, and I felt compelled to oblige.
“Keep up your cadence! Click down a gear! Get that heart rate up!”
My stomach turned sour before the first set was complete, and a sinking feeling overwhelmed me (noting that the difficulty rating of my DVD neared a perfect 10…)
Legs turned to rubber, gnashing teeth couldn’t facilitate an even tempo,
Stomach groaned on while salty puddles expanded on ugly red carpet.
I stared down my power meter to see if my efforts were amounting to much, but it had malfunctioned,
Maybe it was a gift in disguise, concealing values which would only lead to further discouragement.
The elite riders on the screen showed some signs of inner torture, but not enough to satisfy me.
Coach Troy’s arms waved wildly, he yelled from the pit of his stomach, “One minute remaining!”
And in a lifetime of minutes, none seemed so long, so infinitely horrible.
At the minute’s conclusion he mumbled on about wattage, hardly audible over the pounding of my own heart or the gurgling of my stomach.
But soon enough, my pedal stroke met with soft resistance, ushering in the long-awaited cool-down.
It wasn’t pretty, no, not in the least. But, what needed done is done, and one battle–won.